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Cork ling 

Poems  by  a  little  girl 


191*1*19 


UNIVERSITY  OF  N.C.  AT  CHAPEL  HILL 


0002209491 1 


This  BOOK  may  be  kept  out  TWO  WEEKS 
ONLY,    and    is    subject    to   a    fine    of   FWE 
g0CENTS  a  day  thereafter.  It  is  DUE  on  the 
DAY   indicated   below: 


MV  2  9  197i 
WP  2  1  ;v97? 


Form  No.    1683 


j 


POEMS  BY  A  LITTLE  GIRL 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2012  with  funding  from 

University  of  North  Carolina  at  Chapel  Hill 


http://www.archive.org/details/poemsbylittlegirconk 


HILDA 


POEMS 

BY  A  LITTLE  GIRL 


BY 


HILDA  CONKLING 

WITH  A  PREFACE  BY 

AMY  LOWELL 


NEW  YORK 

FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1920,  by 
Frederick  A.  Stokes  Company 


dll  rights  reserved,  including  that  of  translation 

into  foreign  languages,  including 

the  Scandinavian. 


First  Printing,       March  29,  1920 

Second  Printing,  July  19,  1920 

Third  Printing,     May  12,  1921 

Fourth  Printing,  November  16,  1921 

Fifth  Printing,      February  23,  1923 

Sixth  Printing,     July  22,  1924 

Seventh  Printing,  March  1,  1927 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


J 

£11 


FOR  YOU,  MOTHER 


I    HAVE  a  dream  for  you,  Mother, 
Like  a  soft  thick  fringe  to  hide  your  eyes. 
I  have  a  surprise  for  you,  Mother, 
Shaped  like  a  strange  butterfly. 
I  have  found  a  way  of  thinking 
To  make  you  happy ; 
I  have  made  a  song  and  a  poem 
All  twisted  into  one. 
If  I  sing,  you  listen; 
If  I  think,  you  know. 
I  have  a  secret  from  everybody  in  the  world  full 

of  people 
But  I  cannot'  always  remember  how  it  goes; 
It  is  a  song 
For  you,  Mother, 

With  a  curl  of  cloud  and  a  feather  of  blue 
And  a  mist 

Blowing  along  the  sky. 
If  I  sing  it  some  day,  under  my  voice, 
Will  it  make  you  happy  f 


Thanks  are  due  to  the  editors  of  Poetry: 
A  Magazine  of  Verse,  The  Delineator, 
Good  Housekeeping,  The  Lyric,  St. 
Nicholas,  and  Contemporary  Verse  for 
their  courteous  permission  to  reprint 
many  of  the  following  poems. 


PREFACE 

A  book  which  needs  to  be  written  is  one  deal- 
ing with  the  childhood  of  authors.  It  would  be 
not  only  interesting,  but  instructive;  not  merely 
profitable  in  a  general  way,  but  practical  in  a  par- 
ticular. We  might  hope,  in  reading  it,  to  gain 
some  sort  of  knowledge  as  to  what  environments 
and  conditions  are  most  conducive  to  the  growth 
of  the  creative  faculty.  We  might  even  learn  how 
not  to  strangle  this  rare  faculty  in  its  early  years. 

At  this  moment  I  am  faced  with  a  difficult  task, 
for  here  is  an  author  and  her  childhood  in  a  most 
unusual  position;  these  two  conditions  —  that  of 
being  an  author,  and  that  of  being  a  child  —  ap- 
pear simultaneously,  instead  of  in  the  due  order  to 
which  we  are  accustomed.  For  I  wish  at  the  out- 
set to  state,  and  emphatically,  that  it  is  poetry,  the 
stuff  and  essence  of  poetry,  which  this  book  con- 
tains. I  know  of  no  other  instance  in  which  such 
really  beautiful  poetry  has  been  written  by  a  child; 
but,  confronted  with  so  unwonted  a  state  of  things, 
two  cjuestions  obtrude  themselves:  how  far  has 
the  condition  of  childhood  been  impaired  by,  not 
only  the  possession,  but  the  expression,  of  the  gift 
of  writing;  how  far  has  the  condition  of  author- 
[vii] 


PREFACE 

ship  (at  least  in  its  more  mature  state  still  to 
come)  been  hampered  by  this  early  leap  into  the 
light? 

The  first  question  concerns  the  little  girl  and 
can  best  be  answered  by  herself  some  twenty 
years  hence;  the  second  concerns  the  world,  and 
again  the  answer  must  wait.  We  can,  however, 
do  something  —  we  can  see  what  she  is  and  what 
she  has  done.  And  if  the  one  is  interesting  to  the 
psychologist,  the  other  is  no  leis  important  to  the 
poet. 

Hilda  Conkling  is  the  younger  daughter  of  Mrs. 
Grace  Hazard  Conkling,  Assistant  Professor  of 
English  at  Smith  College,  Northampton,  Massa- 
chusetts. At  the  time  of  writing,  Hilda  has  just 
passed  her  ninth  birthday.  Her  sister,  Elsa,  is 
two  years  her  senior.  The  children  and  their 
mother  live  all  the  year  round  in  Northampton, 
and  glimpses  of  the  woods  and  hills  surrounding 
the  little  town  crop  up  again  and  again  in  these 
poems.  /  This  is  Emily  Dickinson's  country,  and 
there  is  a  reminiscent  sameness  in  the  fauna  and 
flora  of  her  poems  in  these.' 

The  two  little  girls  go  to  a  school  a  few  blocks 
from  where  they  live.  In  the  afternoons,  they 
take  long  walks  with  their  mother,  or  play  in  the 
garden  while  she  writes.  On  rainy  days,  there 
are  books  and  Mrs.  Conkling's  piano,  which  is  not 
[  viii  ] 


PREFACE 

just  a  piano,  for  Mrs.  Conkling  is  a  musician,  and 
we  may  imagine  that  the  children  hear  a  special 
music  as  they  certainly  read  a  special  literature. 
By  "  special  "  I  do  not  mean  a  prescribed  course 
(for  dietitians  of  the  mind  are  quite  as  apt  to  be 
faddists  as  dietitians  of  the  stomach),  but  just 
that  sort  of  reading  which  a  person  who  passion- 
ately loves  books  would  most  want  to  introduce 
her  children  to.  And  here  I  think  we  have  the 
answer  to  the  why  of  Hilda.  She  and  her  sister 
have  been  their  mother's  close  companions  ever 
since  they  were  born.  They  have  never  known 
that  somewhat  equivocal  relationship  —  a  child 
with  its  nurse.  They  have  never  been  for  hours 
at  a  time  in  contact  with  an  elementary  intelli- 
gence. If  Hilda  had  shown  these  poems  to  even 
the  most  sympathetic  nurse,  what  would  have  been 
the  result?  In  the  first  place,  they  would,  in  all 
probability,  have  been  lost,  since  Hilda  does  not 
write  her  poems,  but  tells  them;  in  the  second,  they 
would  have  been  either  extravagantly  praised  or 
laughingly  commented  upon.  In  either  case,  the 
fine  flower  of  creation  would  most  certainly  have 
been  injured. 

Then  again,  blessed  though  many  of  the  nurses 
of  childhood  undoubtedly  are  (and  we  all  remem- 
ber them),  they  have  no  means  of  answering  the 
thousand  and  one  questions  of  an  eager,  opening 
[ix] 


PREFACE 

mind.  To  be  an  adequate  companion  to  child- 
hood, one  must  know  so  many  things.  Hilda  is 
fortunate  in  her  mother,  for  if  these  poems  reveal 
one  thing  more  than  another  it  is  that  Mrs. 
Conkling  is  dowered  with  an  admirable  tact.  In 
the  dedication  poem  to  her  mother,  the  little  girl 
says: 

"If  I  sing,  you  listen; 
If  I  think,  you  know." 

No  finer  tribute  could  be  offered  by  one  person  to 
another  than  the  contented  certainty  of  under- 
standing in  those  two  lines. 

Hilda  tells  her  poems,  and  the  method  of  it  is 
this:  They  come  out  in  the  course  of  conversa- 
tion, and  Mrs.  Conkling  is  so  often  engaged  in 
writing  that  there  is  nothing  to  be  remarked  if  she 
scribbles  absently  while  talking  to  the  little  girls. 
But  this  scribbling  is  really  a  complete  draught  of 
the  poem.  Occasionally  Mrs.  Conkling  writes 
down  the  poem  later  from  memory  and  reads  it 
afterwards  to  the  child,  who  always  remembers 
if  it  is  not  exactly  in  its  original  form.  No  line, 
no  cadence,  is  altered  from  Hilda's  version;  the 
titles  have  been  added  for  convenience,  but  they 
are  merely  obvious  handles  derived  from  the 
text. 

Naturally  it  is  only  a  small  proportion  of 
[x] 


PREFACE 

Hilda's  life  which  is  given  to  poetry.  Much  is 
devoted  to  running  about,  a  part  to  study,  etc.  It 
is,  however,  significant  that  Hilda  is  not  very  keen 
about  games  with  other  children.  Not  that  she 
is  by  any  means  either  shy  or  solitary,  but  they  do 
not  greatly  interest  her.  Doubtless  childhood 
pays  its  debt  of  possession  more  steadily  than  we 
know. 

Now  to  turn  to  the  book  itself;  at  the  very  start, 
here  is  an  amazing  thing.  This  slim  volume  con- 
tains one  hundred  and  seven  separate  poems,  and 
that  is  counting  as  one  all  the  very  short  pieces 
written  between  the  ages  of  five  and  six.  Cer- 
tainly that  is  a  remarkable  output  for  a  little  girl, 
and  the  only  possible  explanation  is  that  the  poems 
are  perfectly  instinctive.  There  is  no  working 
over  as  with  an  adult  poet.  Hilda  is  subconscious, 
not  self-conscious.  Her  mother  says  that  she 
rarely  hesitates  for  a  word.  When  the  feeling  is 
strong,  it  speaks  for  itself.  Read  the  dedication 
poem,  "  For  You,  Mother."  It  is  full  of  feeling, 
and  of  that  simple,  dignified,  adequate  diction 
which  is  the  speech  of  feeling:  » 

"  I  have  found  a  way  of  thinking 
To  make  you  happy." 

That  is  beautiful,  and,  once  read,  inevitable; 
but  it  waited  for  a  child  to  say.     Poem  after  poem 
[xi] 


PREFACE 

is  charged  with  this  feeling,   this  expression  of 
great  love : 

"  I  will  sing  you  a  song, 
Sweets-of-my-heart, 
With  love  in  it, 
(How  I  love  you!)" 

"  Will  you  love  me  to-morrow  after  next 
As  if  I  had  a  bird's  way  of  singing?  " 

But  it  is  not  only  the  pulse  of  feeling  in  such 
passages  which  makes  them  surprising;  it  is  the 
perfectly  original  expression  of  it.  When  one 
reads  a  thing  and  voluntarily  exclaims:  "How 
beautiful!  How  natural!  How  true!"  then 
one  knows  that  one  has  stumbled  upon  that  flash 
of  personality  which  we  call  genius.  These  poems 
are  full  of  such  flashes : 

"  Sparkle  up,  little  tired  flower 
Leaning  in  the  grass !  " 

"  There  is  a  star  that  runs  very  fast, 
That  goes  pulling  the  moon 
Through  the  tops  of  the  poplars." 

"  There  is  sweetness  in  the  tree, 
And  fireflies  are  counting  the  leaves. 
I  like  this  country, 
I  like  the  way  it  has." 
[xii] 


PREFACE 

A  pansy  has  a  "  thinking  face  ";  a  rooster  has  a 
comb  "  gay  as  a  parade,"  he  shouts  "  crooked 
words,  loud  .  .  .  sharp  .  .  .  not  beautiful!"; 
frozen  water  is  asked  if  it  cannot  "  lift  "  itself 
"  with  sun,"  and  "  Easter  morning  says  a  glad 
thing  over  and  over." 

No  matter  who  wrote  them,  those  passages 
would  be  beautiful,  the  oldest  poet  in  the  world 
could  not  improve  upon  them;  and  yet  the  reader 
has  only  to  turn  to  the  text  to  see  the  incredibly 
early  age  at  which  such  expressions  came  into  the 
author's  mind. 

Where  childhood  betrays  genius  is  in  the  mount- 
ing up  of  detail.  Inadequate  lines  not  infre- 
quently jar  a  total  effect,  as  when,  in  the  poem  of 
the  star  pulling  the  moon,  she  suddenly  ends, 
"Mr.  Moon,  does  he  make  you  hurry?"  Or, 
speaking  of  a  drop  of  water: 

"  So  it  went  on  with  its  life 
For  several  years 

Until  at  last  it  was  never  heard  of 
Any  more." 

This  is  the  perennial  child,  thinking  as  children 
think;  and  we  are  glad  of  it.  It  makes  the  whole 
more  healthy,  more  sure  of  development.  When 
the  subconscious  mind  of  Hilda  Conkling  takes  a 
vacation,  she  does  not  "  nod,"  as  erstwhile 
[  xiii  ] 


PREFACE 

Homer;  she  merely  reverts  to  type  and  is  a  child 
again. 

I  think  too  highly  of  these  poems  to  speak  of 
the  volume  as  though  it  were  the  finished  achieve- 
ment of  a  grown-up  person.  Some  of  the  poems 
can  be  taken  in  that  way,  but  by  no  means  all. 
The  child  who  writes  them  frequently  transcends 
herself,  but  her  thoughts  for  the  most  part  are 
those  proper  to  every  imaginative  child.  Fairies 
play  a  large  role  in  her  fancies,  and  so  does  the 
sandman.  There  are  kings,  and  princesses,  and 
golden  wings,  and  there  are  reminiscences  of 
story-books,  and  hints  of  pictures  that  have  pleased 
her.  After  all,  that  is  the  way  we  all  make  our 
poems,  but  the  grown-up  poet  tries  to  get  away 
from  his  author,  he  tries  to  see  more  than  the 
painter  has  seen.  The  little  girl  is  quite  un- 
troubled by  any  questions  of  technique.  She 
takes  what  to  her  is  the  obvious  always,  and  in 
these  copied  pieces  it  is,  naturally,  less  her  own 
eculiar  obvious  than  in  the  nature  poems. 

Hilda  Conkling  is  evidently  possessed  of  a  rare 
and  accurate  power  of  observation.  And  when 
we  add  this  to  her  gift  of  imagination,  we  see 
that  it  is  the  perfectly  natural  play  of  these  two 
faculties  which  makes  what  to  her  is  an  obvious 
expression.  She  does  not  search  for  it,  it  is  her 
natural  mode  of  thought.  But,  luckily  for  her, 
[xiv] 


PREFACE 

she  has  been  guided  by  a  wisdom  which  has  not 
attempted  to  show  her  a  better  way.  Her  obser- 
vation has  been  carefully,  but  unobtrusively,  culti- 
vated; her  imagination  has  been  stimulated  by  the 
reading  of  excellent  books;  but  both  these  lines 
of  instruction  have  been  kept  apparently  apart 
from  her  own  work.  She  has  been  let  alone  there ; 
she  has  been  taught  by  an  analogy  which  she  has 
never  suspected.  By  this  means,  her  poetical  gift 
has  functioned  happily,  without  ever  for  a  mo- 
ment experiencing  the  tension  of  doubt. 

A  few  passages  will  serve  to  show  how  well 
Hilda  knows  how  to  use  her  eyes : 

"  The  water  came  in  with  a  wavy  look 
Like  a  spider's  web." 

A  bluebird  has  a  back  "  like  a  feathered  sky." 
Apostrophizing  a  snow-capped  mountain  she 
writes : 

"  You  shine  like  a  lily 

But  with  a  different  whiteness." 

She  asks  a  humming-bird : 

"  Why  do  you  stand  on  the  air 
And  no  sun  shining?  " 

She  hears  a  chickadee : 

[xv] 


PREFACE 

"  Far  off  I  hear  him  talking 
The  way  smooth  bright  pebbles 
Drop  into  water." 

Now  let  us  follow  her  a  step  farther,  to  where 
the  imagination  takes  a  firmer  hold: 

"  The  world  turns  softly 
Not  to  spill  its  lakes  and  rivers. 
The  water  is  held  in  its  arms 
And  the  sky  is  held  in  the  water." 

School  lessons,  and  a  reflection  in  a  pond  — 
that  is  the  stuff  of  which  all  poetry  is  made.  It 
is  the  fusion  which  shows  the  quality  of  the  poet. 
Turn  to  the  text  and  read  "  Geography."  Really, 
this  is  an  extraordinary  child ! 

It  is  pleasant  to  watch  her  with  the  artist's 
eagerness  intrigued  by  the  sounds  of  words,  for 
instance: 

" —  silvery  lonesome  lapping  of  the  long  wave." 

Again,  enchanted  by  a  little  bell  of  rhyme,  we  have 
this  amusing  catalogue : 

"  John-flowers, 
Mary-flowers, 
Polly-flowers 
Cauli-flowers." 

That  is  the  conscious  Hilda,  the  gay  little  girl, 
[xvi  ] 


PREFACE 

but  it  shows  a  quick  ear  nevertheless.  We  can 
almost  hear  the  giggle  with  which  that  "  Cauli- 
flowers "  came  out.  Usually  rhyme  does  not  ap- 
pear to  be  a  matter  of  moment  to  her.  Some 
poets  think  in  rhyme,  some  do  not;  Hilda  evi- 
dently belongs  to  the  second  category.  "  Treas- 
ure," and  "  The  Apple-Jelly-Fish-Tree,"  and 
"  Short  Story  "  are  the  only  poems  in  the  book 
which  seem  to  follow  a  clearly  rhymed  pattern. 
If  any  misguided  schoolmistress  had  ever  sug- 
gested that  a  poem  should  have  rhyme  and 
metre,  this  book  would  never  have  been  "  told." 
In  "  Moon  Doves,"  however,  there  is  a  distinctly 
metrical  effect  without  rhyme.  But  the  great 
majority  of  the  poems  are  built  upon  cadence, 
and  the  subtlety  of  this  little  girl's  cadences 
are  a  delight  to  those  who  can  hear  them. 
Doubtless  her  musical  inheritance  has  all  to  do 
with  this,  for  in  poem  after  poem  the  instinct  for 
rhythm  is  unerring.  So  constantly  is  this  the  case, 
that  it  is  scarcely  necessary  to  point  out  particular 
examples.  I  may,  however,  name,  as  two  of  her 
best  for  other  qualities  as  well,  "  Gift,"  and 
"  Poems."  The  latter  contains  two  of  her  quick 
strokes  of  observation  and  comparison:  the  morn- 
ing "  like  the  inside  of  a  snow-apple,"  and  she  her- 
self curled  "  cushion-shaped  "  in  the  window-seat. 
Dear  me  !  How  simple  these  poems  seem  when 
[  xvii  ] 


PREFACE 

you  read  them  done.  But  try  to  write  something 
new  about  a  dandelion.  Try  it;  and  then  read 
the  poem  of  that  name  here.  It  is  charming; 
how  did  she  think  of  it?     How  indeed! 

Delightful  conceits  she  has  —  another  is  "  Sun 
Flowers" — but  how  comes  a  child  of  eight  to 
prick  and  point  with  the  rapier  of  irony?  For  it 
is  nothing  less  than  irony  in  "  The  Tower  and  the 
Falcon."  Did  she  quite  grasp  its  meaning  her- 
self? We  may  doubt  it.  In  this  poem,  the  sub- 
conscious is  very  much  on  the  job. 

To  my  thinking,  the  most  successful  poems  in 
the  book — and  now  I  mean  successful  from  a 
grown-up  standpoint  —  are  "  For  You,  Mother," 
"Red  Rooster,"  "Gift,"  "Poems,"  "Dande- 
lion," "Butterfly,"  "Weather,"  "Hills,"  and 
"  Geography."  And  it  will  be  noticed  that  these 
are  precisely  the  poems  which  must  have  sprung 
from  actual  experience.  They  are  not  the  book 
poems,  not  even  the  fairy  poems,  they  are  the 
records  of  reactions  from  actual  happenings.  I 
have  not  a  doubt  that  Hilda  prefers  her  fairy- 
stories.  They  are  the  conscious  play  of  her 
imagination,  it  must  be  "  fun  "  to  make  them. 
Ah,  but  it  is  the  unconscious  with  which  we  are 
most  concerned,  those  very  poems  which  are  prob- 
ably to  her  the  least  interesting  are  the  ones  which 
most  certainly  reveal  the  fulness  of  poetry  from 
[  xviii  ] 


PREFACE 

which  she  draws.  She  probably  hardly  thought 
at  all,  so  natural  was  it,  to  say  that  three  pinks 
"  smell  like  more  of  them  in  a  blue  vase,"  but  the 
expression  fills  the  air  with  so  strong  a  scent  that 
no  superlative  could  increase  it. 

"  Gift  "  is  a  lovely  poem,  it  has  feeling,  expres- 
sion, originality,  cadence.  If  a  child  can  write 
such  a  poem  at  eight  years  old,  what  does  it  mean? 
That  depends,  I  think,  on  how  long  the  instructors 
of  youth  can  be  persuaded  to  keep  "  hands  off." 
A  period  of  imitation  is,  I  fear,  inevitable,  but  if 
consciousness  is  not  induced  by  direct  criticism,  if 
instruction  in  the  art  of  writing  is  abjured,  the 
imitative  period  will  probably  be  got  through 
without  undue  loss.  I  think  there  is  too  much 
native  sense  of  beauty  and  proportion  here  to  be 
entirely  killed  even  by  the  drying  and  freezing 
process  which  goes  by  the  name  of  education. 

What  this  book  chiefly  shows  is  high  promise; 
but  it  also  has  its  pages  of  real  achievement,  and 
that  of  so  high  an  order  it  may  well  set  us  pon- 
dering. 

Amy  Lowell. 


[xix] 


CONTENTS 

FOUR  TO  FIVE  YEARS  OLD 

PAGE 

First  Songs 3 

FIVE  TO  SIX  YEARS  OLD 

Garden  of  the  World 9 

Theatre-Song 10 

Velvets n 

Two  Songs 13 

Moon  Song 15 

Sunset 16 

Mouse 17 

Short  Story 18 

By  Lake  Champlain 19 

Spring  Song 20 

Water 22 

Shady  Bronn 23 

Chickadee 24 

The  Champlain  Sandman 25 

Rose-Moss 26 

About  My  Dreams 27 

SIX  TO  SEVEN  YEARS  OLD 

Autumn  Song 31 

The  Dream 32 

Butterfly 33 

[  xxi] 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Evening 34 

Thunder  Shower  .35 

Red  Cross  Song 36 

Purple  Asters 37 

Song  for  a  Play 38 

Peacock  Feathers 39 

Red  Rooster 40 

Tree-Toad 41 

SEVEN  TO  NINE  YEARS  OLD 

The  Lonesome  Wave 45 

Red-Cap  Moss 46 

Rambler  Rose 47 

Gift 48 

The  White  Cloud 49 

Moon  Thought 50 

The  Old  Bridge 51 

Ferns 52 

Land  of  Nod 53 

Sun  Flowers 54 

Holland  Song 55 

Fountain-Talk 56 

Poplars       ....          57 

The  Tower  and  the  Falcon 58 

Thoughts 59 

Poem-Sketch  in  Three  Parts 60 

The  Dew-Light 63 

Yellow  Summer-Throat 64 

Pegasus 65 

Venice  Bridge 66 

[  xxii  ] 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


Night  Goes  Rushing  By 67 

Dandelion 68 

If  I  Could  Tell  You  the  Way 69 

Rose-Petal 70 

Poems        71 

Seagarde 72 

Easter 73 

Bluebird 74 

Geography 75 

March  Thought 76 

Morning ...  77 

Song 78 

Snow  Flake  Song 79 

Snow  Storm 80 

Poppy 81 

Butterfly 82  • 

Clouds 83 

Narcissus 84 

Little  Snail 85 

Cherries  are  Ripe 86 

A  Thing  Forgotten 87 

Little  Papoose 88 

Fairies  Again 89 

Oh,  My  Hazel-Eyed  Mother 90 

The  Green  Palm  Tree 91 

Treasure 92 

Two   Pictures 93 

Tell  Me    .         94 

Silverhorn 95 

Sparkling  Drop  of  Water 96 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


Hay-Cock 97 

Only  Morning-Glory  that  Flowered  ...  98 

r  Weather 99 

Summer-Day  Song 100 

Pink  Rose-Petals 101 

The  Lonesome  Green  Apple 102 

I  Am 103 

Mushroom  Song 104 

The  Apple-Jelly-Fish-Tree 105 

Three  Loves 106 

The  Field  of  Wonder 107 

Moon  Doves 108 

I  Went  to  Sea 109 

Three  Thoughts  of  My  Heart 110 

Snow-Capped  Mountain 11 1 

The  Brook  and  its  Children 112 

Bird  of  Paradise 113 

Shiny  Brook 114 

Hills 115 

Adventure 116 

Fairies 117 

Humming-Bird 118 

Blue  Grass 119 

Envoy        .     , 120 


[  xxiv  ] 


FOUR  TO  FIVE  YEARS  OLD 


R 


FIRST  SONGS 


OSY  plum-tree,  think  of  me 
When  Spring  comes  down  the  world! 


II 

There's  dozens  full  of  dandelions 

Down  in  the  field: 

Little  gold  plates, 

Little  gold  dishes  in  the  grass. 

I  cannot  count  them, 

But  the  fairies  know  every  one. 

Ill 

Oh  wrinkling  star,  zvrinkling  up  so  wise, 
When  you  go  to  sleep  do  you  shut  your  eyes? 

IV 

The  red  moon  comes  out  in  the  night. 

When  I'm  asleep,  the  moon  comes  pattering  up 

Into  the  trees. 

Then  I  peep  out  my  window 

To  watch  the  moon  go  by. 

[3] 


FIRST  SONGS 
v 

Sparkle  up,  little  tired  flozver 
Leaning  in  the  grass! 
Did  you  find  the  rain  of  night 
Too  heavy  to  hold? 


VI 

The  garden  is  full  of  flowers 
All  dancing  round  and  round. 

John-flowers, 

Mary-flowers, 

Polly-flowers, 

Cauli-flowers, 
They  dance  round  and  round 
And  they  bow  down  and  down 
To  a  black-eyed  daisy. 

VII 

There  is  going  to  be  the  sound  of  bells 

And  murmuring. 

This  is  the  brook  dance : 

There  is  going  to  be  sound  of  voices, 

And  the  smallest  will  be  the  brook: 

It  is  the  song  of  water 

You  will  hear, 

[4] 


FIRST  SONGS 

A  little  winding  song 
To  dance  to  .  .  . 

VIII 

Blossoms  in  the  growing  tree, 
Why  don't  you  speak  to  mef 
I  want  to  grow  like  you, 
Smiling  .  .  .  smiling  .  .  . 

IX 

If  I  find  a  moon, 
I  will  sing  a  moon-song. 
If  I  find  a  flower, 
What  song  shall  I  sing, 
Rose-song  or  clover-song? 

x 

The  blossoms  will  be  gone  in  the  winter. 
Oh  apples,  come  for  the  June! 
Can  you  come,  will  you  bloom? 
Will  you  stay  till  the  cold? 

XI 

I  will  sing  you  a  song, 
Sweets-of-my-heart, 

[5] 


FIRST  SONGS 

With  love  in  it, 

{How  I  love  you!) 

And  a  rose  to  swing  in  the  wind, 

The  wind  that  swings  roses ! 

XII 

Will  you  love  me  to-morrow  after  next, 
As  if  I  had  a  bird's  way  of  singing? 


[6] 


FIVE  TO  SIX  YEARS  OLD 


GARDEN  OF  THE  WORLD 

THE  butterfly  swings  over  the  violet 
That  stands  by  the  water, 
In  the  garden  that  sings 
All  day. 

The  sun  goes  up  in  the  dawn, 
The  water  waves  softly. 
In  the  trees  are  little  breezes, 
In  the  garden  trees. 
Blue  hills  and  blue  waters! 
The  big  blue  ocean  lies  around  in  the  sun 
Watching  his  waves  toss  .  .  . 


[9] 


THEATRE-SONG 

EAGLES  were  flying  over  the  sky 
And  mermaids  danced  in  the  gold  waters. 
Eagles  were  calling  over  the  sky 
And  the  water  was  the  color  of  blue  flowers. 
Sunshine  was  'fleeted  in  the  waves 
Like  meadows  of  white  buds. 
This  is  what  I  saw 
On  a  morning  long  ago  .  .  . 


[10] 


VELVETS 

By  a  Bed  of  Pansies 

THIS  pansy  has  a  thinking  face 
Like  the  yellow  moon. 
This  one  has  a  face  with  white  blots: 
I  call  him  the  clown. 
Here  goes  one  down  the  grass 
With  a  pretty  look  of  plumpness; 
She  is  a  little  girl  going  to  school 
With  her  hands  in  the  pockets  of  her  pinafore. 
Her  name  is  Sue. 
I  like  this  one,  in  a  bonnet, 
Waiting, 

Her  eyes  are  so  deep  ! 
But  these  on  the  other  side, 
These  that  wear  purple  and  blue, 
They  are  the  Velvets, 
The  king  with  his  cloak, 
The  queen  with  her  gown, 
The  prince  with  his  feather. 
These  are  dark  and  quiet 
And  stay  alone. 


VELVETS 

/  know  you,  Velvets, 
Color  of  Dark, 
Like  the  pine-tree  on  the  hill 
When  stars  shine! 


[12] 


TWO  SONGS 
After  Hearing  the  Wagner  Story-book 


THE  birds  came  to  tell  Siegfried  a  story,. 
A  story  of  the  woods  out  of  a  tree : 
How  the  ring  was  fairy 
And  there  were  things  it  could  do  for  him 
Day  and  night: 

How  the  river  flowed  green  and  wavy 
Under  the  Rainbow  Bridge, 
And  Briinnhilda  slept  in  a  wreath  of  fire. 
Grane  watched  her,  standing  close  beside, 
Grane  the  big  white  horse, 
Dear  Grane  of  her  heart. 
She  dreamed  she  was  far  from  her  father, 
But  Siegfried  was  coming, 
Siegfried,  through  the  big  trees, 
Up  the  hill, 
Through  the  fire! 

II 

"  Siegfried,  hear  us! 
Give  us  back  the  ring!  " 
[13] 


TWO  SONGS 

The  lady  with  the  shell, 

The  water-lady  with  the  green  hair, 

Calling,  cried  "  Siegfried!  " 

But  he  laughed  to  hear  her, 

Laughed  in  the  sun 

And  went  into  the  woods  laughing: 

He  was  happy  in  his  heart, 

And  he  had  golden  hair 

Till  the  sun  loved  him. 

"  Siegfried!  " 

I  will  call  him ! 

"  Siegfried!  " 

But  he  will  not  hear  me. 

He  could  talk  to  birds  and  rivers, 

And  he  is  gone. 


[14] 


MOON  SONG 

THERE  is  a  star  that  runs  very  fast, 
That  goes  pulling  the  moon 
Through  the  tops  of  the  poplars. 
It  is  all  in  silver, 
The  tall  star: 

The  moon  rolls  goldenly  along 
Out  of  breath. 
Mr.  Moon,  does  he  make  you  hurry? 


[IS] 


SUNSET 

ONCE  upon  a  time  at  evening-light 
A  little  girl  was  sad. 
There  was  a  color  in  the  sky, 
A  color  she  knew  in  her  dreamful  heart 
And  wanted  to  keep. 
She  held  out  her  arms 
Long,  long, 

And  saw  it  flow  away  on  the  wind. 
When  it  was  gone 
She  did  not  love  the  moonlight 
Or  care  for  the  stars. 
She  had  seen  the  rose  in  the  sky. 

Sometimes  I  am  sad 
Because  I  have  a  thought 
Of  this  little  girl. 


[16] 


MOUSE 

LITTLE  MOUSE  in  gray  velvet, 
Have  you  had  a  cheese-breakfast? 
There  are  no  crumbs  on  your  coat, 
Did  you  use  a  napkin? 
I  wonder  what  you  had  to  eat, 
And  who  dresses  you  in  gray  velvet? 


[17] 


I 


SHORT  STORY 

FOUND  the  gold  on  the  hill; 
I  found  the  hid  gold! 


The  wicked  queen 
Stole  the  gold, 
Hid  it  under  a  stone 
And  never  told. 

The  selfish  queen 
Rolling  away 
In  her  white  limousine, 
Never  knew  nor  dreamed 
That  I  searched  all  day 
Till  I  found  the  gold, 
The  gold! 


[18] 


BY  LAKE  CHAMPLAIN 

I  WAS  bare  as  a  leaf 
And  I  felt  the  wind  on  my  shoulder. 
The  trees  laughed 

When  I  picked  up  the  sun  in  my  fingers. 
The  wind  was  chasing  the  waves, 
Tangling  their  white  curls. 
"  Willow  trees,"  I  said, 
"  O  willows, 
Look  at  your  lake! 
Stop  laughing  at  a  little  girl 
Who  runs  past  your  feet  in  the  sand!  " 


[19] 


SPRING  SONG 

I  LOVE  daffodils. 
I  love  Narcissus  when  he  bends  his  head. 
I  can  hardly  keep  March  and  spring  and  Sunday 

and  daffodils 
Out  of  my  rhyme  of  song. 
Do  you  know  anything  about  the  spring 
When  it  comes  again? 
God  knows  about  it  while  winter  is  lasting. 
Flowers  bring  him  power  in  the  sprinp, 
And  birds  bring  it,  and  children. 
He  is  sometimes  sad  and  alone 
Up  there  in  the  sky  trying  to  keep  his  worlds 

happy. 
I  bring  him  songs 

When  he  is  in  his  sadness,  and  weary. 
I  tell  him  how  I  used  to  wander  out 
To  study  stars  and  the  moon  he  made, 
And  flowers  in  the  dark  of  the  wood. 
I  keep  reminding  him  about  his  flowers  he  has 

forgotten, 
And  that  snowdrops  are  up. 
What  can  I  say  to  make  him  listen? 

[20] 


SPRING  SONG 

"  God,"  I  say, 

"  Don't  you  care  ! 

Nobody  must  be  sad  or  sorry 

In  the  spring-time  of  flowers." 


[21] 


WATER 

THE  world  turns  softly 
Not  to  spill  its  lakes  and  rivers. 
The  water  is  held  in  its  arms 
And  the  sky  is  held  in  the  water. 
What  is  water, 
That  pours  silver, 
And  can  hold  the  sky? 


[22] 


SHADY  BRONN 

WHEN  the  clouds  come  deep  against  the  sky 
I  sit  alone  in  my  room  to  think, 
To  remember  the  fairy  dreams  I  made, 
Listening  to  the  rustling  out  of  the  trees. 
The  stories  in  my  fairy-tale  book 
Come  new  to  me  every  day. 
But  at  my  farm  on  the  hill-top 
I  have  the  wind  for  a  fairy, 
And  the  shapes  of  things: 
Shady  Bronn  is  the  name  of  my  little  farm: 
It  is  the  name  of  a  dream  I  have 
Where  leaves  move, 
And  the  wind  rings  them  like  little  bells. 


[23] 


CHICKADEE 

THE  chickadee  in  the  appletree 
Talks  all  the  time  very  gently. 
He  makes  me  sleepy. 
I  rock  away  to  the  sea-lights. 
Far  off  I  hear  him  talking 
The  way  smooth  bright  pebbles 
Drop  into  water  .   .   . 
Chick-a-dee-dee-dee  .  .  . 


[24] 


THE  CHAMPLAIN  SANDMAN 

THE    Sandman   comes   pattering   across    the 
Bay: 
His  hair  is  silver, 
His  footstep  soft. 
The  moon  shines  on  his  silver  hair, 
On  his  quick  feet. 

The  Sandman  comes  searching  across  the  Bay: 
He  goes  to  all  the  houses  he  knows 
To  put  sand  in  little  girls'  eyes. 
That  is  why  I  go  to  my  sleepy  bed, 
And  why  the  lake-gull  leaves  the  moon  alone. 
There  are  no  wings  to  moonlight  any  more, 
Only  the  Sandman's  hair. 


[25] 


ROSE-MOSS 

LITTLE  ROSE-MOSS  beside  the  stone, 
Are  you  lonely  in  the  garden? 
There  are  no  friends  of  you, 
And  the  birds  are  gone. 
Shall  I  pick  you?" 

"  Little  girl  up  by  the  hollyhock, 

I  am  not  lonely. 

I  feel  the  sun  burning, 

I  hold  light  in  my  cup, 

I  have  all  the  rain  I  want, 

I  think  things  to  myself  that  you  don't  know, 

And  I  listen  to  the  talk  of  crickets. 

I  am  not  lonely, 

But  you  may  pick  me 

And  take  me  to  your  mother." 


[26] 


ABOUT  MY  DREAMS 

NOW  the  flowers  are  all  folded 
And  the  dark  is  going  by. 
The  evening  is  arising  .   .  . 
It  is  time  to  rest. 
When  I  am  sleeping 
I  find  my  pillow  full  of  dreams. 
They  are  all  new  dreams: 
No  one  told  them  to  me 
Before  I  came  through  the  cloud. 
They  remember  the  sky,  my  little  dreams, 
They  have  wings,  they  are  quick,  they  are  sweet. 
Help  me  tell  my  dreams 
To  the  other  children, 
So  that  their  bread  may  taste  whiter, 
So  that  the  milk  they  drink 
May  make  them  think  of  meadows 
In  the  sky  of  stars. 

Help  me  give  bread  to  the  other  children 
So  that  their  dreams  may  come  back: 
So  they  will  remember  what  they  knew 
Before  they  came  through  the  cloud. 
Let  me  hold  their  little  hands  in  the  dark, 
The  lonely  children, 

[27] 


ABOUT  MY  DREAMS 

The  babies  that  have  no  mothers  any  more. 

Dear  God,  let  me  hold  up  my  silver  cup 

For  them  to  drink, 

And  tell  them  the  sweetness 

Of  my  dreams. 


28] 


SIX  TO  SEVEN  YEARS  OLD 


AUTUMN  SONG 

I   MADE  a  ring  of  leaves 
On  the  autumn  grass: 
I  was  a  fairy  queen  all  day. 
Inside  the  ring,  the  wind  wore  sandals 
Not  to  make  a  noise  of  going. 
The  caterpillars,  like  little  snow  men, 
Had  wound  themselves  in  their  winter  coats. 
The  hands  of  the  trees  were  bare 
And  their  fingers  fluttered. 
I  was  a  queen  of  yellow  leaves  and  brown, 
And  the  redness  of  my  fairy  ring 
Kept  me  warm. 
For  the  wind  blew  near, 
Though  he  made  no  noise  of  going, 
And  I  hadn't  a  close-made  wrap 
Like  the  caterpillars. 
Even  a  queen  of  fairies  can  be  cold 
When  summer  has  forgotten  and  gone ! 
Keep  me  warm,  red  leaves; 
Don't  let  the  frost  tiptoe  into  my  ring 
On  the  magic  grass ! 


[31] 


THE  DREAM 

WHEN  I  slept,  I  thought  I  was  upon  the 
mountain-tops, 
And  this  is  my  dream. 

I  saw  the  little  people  come  out  into  the  night, 
I  saw  their  wings  glittering  under  the  stars. 
Crickets  played  all  the  tunes  they  knew. 
It  was  so  comfortable  with  light  .   .   . 
Stars,  a  rainbow,  the  moon! 
The  fairies  had  shiny  crowns 
On  their  bright  hair. 

The  bottoms  of  their  little  gowns  were  roses  1 
It  was  musical  in  the  moony  light, 
And  the  fairy  queen, 
Oh,  it  was  all  golden  where  she  came 
With  tiny  pages  on  her  trail. 
She  walked  slowly  to  her  high  throne, 
Slowly,  slowly  to  music, 
And  watched  the  dancing  that  went  on 
All  night  long  in  star-glitter 
On  the  mountain-tops. 


[3*] 


BUTTERFLY 

BUTTERFLY, 
I  like  the  way  you  wear  your  wings. 
Show  me  their  colors, 
For  the  light  is  going. 
Spread  out  their  edges  of  gold, 
Before  the  Sandman  puts  me  to  sleep 
And  evening  murmurs  by. 


[33] 


EVENING 

NOW  it  is  dusky, 
And  the  hermit  thrush  and  the  black  and 
white  warbler 
Are  singing  and  answering  together. 
There  is  sweetness  in  the  tree, 
And  fireflies  are  counting  the  leaves. 
I  like  this  country, 
I  like  the  way  it  has, 

But  I  cannot  forget  my  dream  I  had  of  the  sea, 
The  gulls  swinging  and  calling, 
And  the  foamy  towers  of  the  waves. 


[34] 


THUNDER  SHOWER 

THE  dark  cloud  raged. 
Gone  was  the  morning  light. 
The  big  drops  darted  down: 
The  storm  stood  tall  on  the  rose-trees: 
And  the  bees  that  were  getting  honey 
Out  of  wet  roses, 

The  hiding  bees  would  not  come  out  of  the  flowers 
Into  the  rain. 


[35] 


RED  CROSS  SONG 

WHEN  I  heard  the  bees  humming  in  the  hive, 
They  were  so  busy  about  their  honey, 
I  said  to  my  mother, 
What  can  /  give, 

What  can  /  give  to  help  the  Red  Cross? 
And  Mother  said  to  me: 
You  can  give  honey  too! 
Honey  of  smiles! 
Honey  of  love! 


[36] 


PURPLE  ASTERS 

IT  isn't  alone  the  asters 
In  my  garden, 
It  is  the  butterflies  gleaming 
Like  crowns  of  kings  and  queens! 

It  isn't  alone  purple 

And  blue  on  the  edge  of  purple, 

It  is  what  the  sun  does, 

And  the  air  moving  clearly, 

The  petals  moving  and  the  wings, 

In  my  queer  little  garden ! 


[37] 


SONG  FOR  A  PLAY 

SOLDIER,  drop  that  golden  spear! 
Wait  till  the  fires  arise! 
Wait  till  the  sky  drops  down  and  touches  the 

spear, 
Crystal  and  mother-of-pearl! 
The  sunlight  droops  forward 
Like  wings. 

The  birds  sing  songs  of  sun-drops. 
The  sky  leans  down  where  the  spear  stands  up- 
ward .  .  . 
I  hear  music  .   .  . 
It  is  the  end  .  .  . 


[38] 


PEACOCK  FEATHERS 

ON  trees  of  fairyland 
Grow  peacock  feathers  of  daylight  colors 
Like  an  Austrian  fan. 
But  there  is  a  strange  thing! 
I  have  heard  that  night  gathers  these  feathers 
For  her  cloak; 

I  have  heard  that  the  stars,  the  moon, 
Are  the  eyes  of  peacock  feathers 
From  fairy  trees. 
It  is  a  thing  that  may  be, 
But  I  should  not  be  sure  of  it,  my  dear, 
If  I  were  you! 


[39] 


RED  ROOSTER 

RED  ROOSTER  in  your  gray  coop, 
O   stately   creature   with    tail-feathers    red 
and  blue, 
Yellow  and  black, 
You  have  a  comb  gay  as  a  parade 
On  your  head: 
You  have  pearl  trinkets 
On  your  feet : 

The  short  feathers  smooth  along  your  back 
Are  the  dark  color  of  wet  rocks, 
Or  the  rippled  green  of  ships 
When  I  look  at  their  sides  through  water. 
I  don't  know  how  you  happened  to  be  made 
So  proud,  so  foolish, 
Wearing  your  coat  of  many  colors, 
Shouting  all  day  long  your  crooked  words, 
Loud  .  .  .  sharp  .  .  .  not  beautiful! 


[40] 


TREE-TOAD 

TREE-TOAD  is  a  small  gray  person 
With  a  silver  voice. 
Tree-toad  is  a  leaf-gray  shadow 
That  sings. 

Tree-toad  is  never  seen 
Unless  a  star  squeezes  through  the  leaves, 
Or  a  moth  looks  sharply  at  a  gray  branch. 
How  would  it  be,  I  wonder, 
To  sing  patiently  all  night, 
Never  thinking  that  people  are  asleep? 
Raindrops  and  mist,  starriness  over  the  trees, 
The  moon,  the  dew,  the  other  little  singers, 
Cricket  .   .   .   toad  .   .   .  leaf  rustling  .   .   . 
They  would  listen: 
It  would  be  music  like  weather 
That  gets  into  all  the  corners 
Of  out-of-doors. 

Every  night  I  see  little  shadows 

I  never  saw  before. 

Every  night  I  hear  little  voices 

I  never  heard  before. 

When  night  comes  trailing  her  starry  cloak, 

[41] 


i 


TREE-TOAD 

I  start  out  for  slumberland, 
With  tree-toads  calling  along  the  roadside. 
Good-night,  I  say  to  one,  Good-by,  I  say  to  an- 
other: 
/  hope  to  find  you  on  the  way 
We  have  traveled  before! 
I  hope  to  hear  you  singing  on  the  Road  of  Dreams! 


[42] 


I 


SEVEN  TO  NINE  YEARS  OLD 


THE  LONESOME  WAVE 

THERE  is  an  island 
In  the  middle  of  my  heart, 
And  all  day  comes  lapping  on  the  shore 
A  long  silver  wave. 
It  is  the  lonesome  wave; 
I  cannot  see  the  other  side  of  it. 
It  will  never  go  away 
Until  it  meets  the  glad  gold  wave 
Of  happiness! 

Wandering  over  the  monstrous  rocks, 
Looking  into  the  caves, 
I  see  my  island  dark,  all  cold, 
Until  the  gold  wave  sweeps  in 
From  a  sea  deep  blue, 
And  flings  itself  on  the  beach. 
Oh,  it  is  joy,  then! 
No  more  whispers  like  sorrow, 
No  more  silvery  lonesome  lapping  of  the  long 
wave  .  .  . 


[45] 


RED-CAP  MOSS 

HAVE  you  seen  red-cap  moss 
In  the  woods? 
Have  you  looked  under  the  trembling  caps 
For  faces? 

Have  you  seen  wonder  on  those  faces 
Because  you  are  so  big? 


[46] 


RAMBLER  ROSE 

RAMBLER  ROSE  in  great  clusters, 
Looking  at  me,  at  my  mother  with  me 
Under  this  apple-tree, 
Your  faces  watch  us  from  outside  the  shade. 

The  wind  blows  on  you, 

The  rain  drops  on  you, 

The  sun  shines  on  you, 
You  are  brighter  than  before. 
You  turn  your  faces  to  the  wind 
And  watch  my  mother  and  me, 
Thinking  of  things  I  cannot  mention 
Outside  of  my  mind. 
Rambler  Rose  in  the  shining  wind, 
You  smile  at  me, 
Smile  at  my  mother! 


[47] 


GIFT 

IHIS  is  mint  and  here  are  three  pinks 
I  have  brought  you,  Mother. 
They  are  wet  with  rain 
And  shining  with  it. 
The  pinks  smell  like  more  of  them 
In  a  blue  vase : 
The  mint  smells  like  summer 
In  many  gardens. 


[48] 


THE  WHITE  CLOUD 

THERE  are  many  clouds 
But  not  like  the  one  I  see, 
For  mine  floats  like  a  swan  in  featheriness 
Over  the  River  of  the  Broken  Pine. 

There  are  many  clouds 
But  not  like  the  one  that  goes  sailing 
Like  a  ship  full  of  gold  that  shines, 
Like  a  ship  leaning  above  blue  water. 

There  are  many  clouds 

But  not  like  the  one  I  wait  for, 

For  mine  will  have  a  strangeness 

Whiter  than  anything  your  eyes  remember. 


[49] 


MOON  THOUGHT 

THE  moon  is  thinking  of  the  river 
Winding  through  the  mountains  far  away. 
Because  she  has  a  river  in  her  heart 
Full  of  the  same  silver. 


[50] 


THE  OLD  BRIDGE 

THE  old  bridge  has  a  wrinkled  face. 
He  bends  his  back 
For  us  to  go  over. 
He  moans  and  weeps 
But  we  do  not  hear. 
Sorrow  stands  in  his  face 
For  the  heavy  weight  and  worry 
Of  people  passing. 

The  trees  drop  their  leaves  into  the  water; 
The  sky  nods  to  him. 
The  leaves  float  down  like  small  ships 
On  the  blue  surface 
Which  is  the  sky. 
He  is  not  always  sad: 
He  smiles  to  see  the  ships  go  down 
And  the  little  children 
Playing  on  the  river  banks. 


[5i] 


FERNS 

SMALL  ferns  up-coming  through  the  mossy 
green, 
Up-curling  and  springing, 
See  trees  circling  round  them, 
And  the  straight  brook  like  a  lily-stem: 
Hear  the  water  laughing 
At  the  stern  old  pine-tree 
Who  keeps  sighing  to  himself  all  day  long 
What's  the  use!     What's  the  use! 


[52] 


LAND  OF  NOD 

I  WANDER  from  mountain  to  mountain, 
From  sea  to  sea, 
I  wander  into  a  country 
Where  everyone  is  asleep. 
There  in  the  Land  of  Nod 
I  never  think  of  home, 
For  home  is  there, 

With  sleeping  doves  and  silvery  girls, 
Sleeping  boys  and  drowsy  roses. 
There  I  find  people  whose  eyes  are  heavy, 
And  trees  with  folded  wings. 


[53] 


SUN  FLOWERS 

SUN-FLOWERS,  stop  growing! 
If  you  touch  the  sky  where  those  clouds  are 
passing 
Like  tufts  of  dandelion  gone  to  seed, 
The  sky  will  put  you  out ! 
You  know  it  is  blue  like  the  sea  .   .  . 
Maybe  it  is  wet,  too! 
Your  gold  faces  will  be  gone  forever 
If  you  brush  against  that  blue 
Ever  so  softly! 


[54] 


HOLLAND  SONG 
For  a  Dutch  picture 

WHEN   light   comes   creeping  through   the 
hills 
That  shine  with  mist, 
When  winds  blow  soft, 
Windmills  wake  and  whirl. 
In  Holland,  in  Holland, 
Everything  is  cheerful 
Across  the  sea : 

White  nets  are  beside  the  water 
Where  ships  sail  by. 
The  mountains  begin  to  get  blue, 
The  Dutch  girls  begin  to  sing, 
The  windmills  begin  to  whirl. 
Then  night  comes 
The  mountains  turn  dark  gray 
And  faint  away  into  night. 
Not  a  bird  chirps  his  song. 
All  is  drowsy, 
All  is  strange, 

With  the  moon  and  stars  shining  round  the  world : 
The  wind  stops, 
The  windmills  stop 
In  Holland  .   .  . 

[55] 


FOUNTAIN-TALK 

SAID  the  fountain  to  its  clear  bed, 
"  You  might  flow  faster! 
I  am  sprinkling  my  best,  every  day, 
But  ice  is  holding  you  fast. 
Can't  you  get  out? 
Can't  you  lift  yourself  with  sun? 
I  am  tired  waiting  for  slow  cold  water 
To  fling  about  the  air : 
Can't  you  wake  yourself  up?  " 
But  the  fountain-basin  murmured  softly 
"  Sleep  .   .   .  sleep  .  .   . 
Sleep  .   .   .  sleep  .   .   . 
You  with  your  talking  and  talking! 
Hush  .   .   .  hush  .   .  . 
I  hear  the  bird-sandman!  " 


[56] 


POPLARS 

THE  poplars  bow  forward  and  back; 
They  are  like  a  fan  waving  very  softly. 
They  tremble, 

For  they  love  the  wind  in  their  feathery  branches. 
They  love  to  look  down  at  the  shallows, 
At  the  mermaids 
On  the  sandy  shore; 
They  love  to  look  into  morning's  face 
Cool  in  the  water. 


[57] 


THE  TOWER  AND  THE  FALCON 

THERE  was  a  tower,  once, 
In  a  London  street. 
It  was  the  highest,  widest,  thickest  tower, 
The  proudest,  roundest,  finest  tower 
Of  all  towers. 
English  men  passed  it  by: 
They  could  not  see  it  all 
Because  it  went  above  tree-tops  and  clouds. 

It  was  lonely  up  there  where  the  trees  stopped 

Until  one  day 

A  blue  falcon  came  flying. 

He  cried: 

"  Tower!     Do  you   know  you   are   the   highest, 

finest,  roundest, 
The  tallest,  proudest,  greatest, 
Of  all  the  towers 
In  all  the  world?  " 

He  went  away. 

That  night  the  tower  made  a  new  song 

About  himself. 

[58] 


THOUGHTS 

MY  thoughts  keep  going  far  away 
Into  another  country  under  a  different  sky 
My  thoughts  are  sea-foam  and  sand; 
They  are  apple-petals  fluttering. 


[59] 


POEM-SKETCH  IN  THREE  PARTS 

(Made  for  the  picture  on  the  jacket  of  the  Nor- 
wegian book,  The  Great  Hunger, 
by  Johan  Bojer) 

I 
THE   ROLLING   IN   OF   THE    WAVE 

IT  was  night  when  the  sky  was  dark  blue 
And  the  water  came  in  with  a  wavy  look 
Like  a  spider's  web. 
The  point  of  the  slope  came  down  to  the  water's 

edge; 
It  was  green  with  a  fairy  ring  of  forget-me-not 

and  fern. 
The  white  foam  licked  the  side  of  the  slope 
As  it  came  up  and  bent  backward; 
It  curled  up  like  a  beautiful  cinder-tree 
Bending  in  the  wind. 


[60] 


POEM-SKETCH 
II 

THE    COMING   OF    THE    GREAT   BIRD 

A  boy  was  watching  the  water 

As  it  came  lapping  the  edge  of  fern. 

Little  ships  passed  him 

As  the  moon  came  leaning  across  dark  blue  rays 

of  light. 
The  spruce  trees  saw  the  white  ships  sailing  away, 
And  the  moon  bending  up  the  blue  sky 
Where  stars  were  twinkling  like  fairy  lamps; 
The  boy  was  looking  toward  foreign  lands 
As  the  ships  passed, 

Their  white  sails  glittering  in  the  moonlight. 
He  was  thinking  how  he  wished  to  see 
Foreign  lands,  strange  people, 
When  suddenly  a  bird  came  flying! 
It  swooped  down  upon  the  slope 
And  spoke  to  him : 

"  Do  you  want  to  go  across  the  deep  blue  seaf 
Get  on  my  back;  I  will  take  you." 
"  Oh"  cried  the  little  boy,  "  who  sent  you? 
Who  knew  my  thoughts  of  foreign  lands?" 


[61] 


POEM-SKETCH 
III 

THE    ISLAND 

They  flew  as  the  night-wind  flowed,  very  softly, 

They  heard  sweet  singing  that  the  water  sang, 

They  came  to  a  place  where  the  sea  was  shallow 

And  saw  treasure  hidden  there. 

There  was  one  poplar  tree 

On  the  lonely  island, 

Swaying  for  sadness. 

The  clouds  went  over  their  heads 

Like  a  fleet  of  drifting  ships. 

And  there  they  sank  down  out  of  the  air 

Into  the  dream. 


[62] 


THE  DEW-LIGHT 

THE    Dew-man    comes    over   the    mountains 
wide, 
Over  the  deserts  of  sand, 
With  his  bag  of  clear  drops 
And  his  brush  of  feathers. 
He  scatters  brightness. 
The  white  bunnies  beg  him  for  dew* 
He  sprinkles  their  fur, 
They  shake  themselves. 
All  the  time  he  is  singing 

The  unknown  world  is  beautiful! 

He  polishes  flowers, 

Humming  "  Oh,  beautiful!  " 

He  sings  in  the  soft  light 

That  grows  out  of  the  dew, 

Out  of  the  misty  dew-light  that  leans  over  him 

He  makes  his  song  .   .   . 

It  is  beautiful,  the  unknown  world! 


[63] 


YELLOW  SUMMER-THROAT 

YELLOW  summer-throat  sat  singing 
In  a  bending  spray  of  willow  tree. 
Thin  fine  green-y  lines  on  his  throat, 
The  ruffled  outside  of  his  throat, 
Trembled  when  he  sang. 
He  kept  saying  the  same  thing; 
The  willow  did  not  mind. 

/  knew  what  he  said,  I  knew, 
But  how  can  I  tell  you? 

I  have  to  watch  the  willow  bend  in  the  wind. 


[64] 


PEGASUS 

/^fOME,  dear  Pegasus,  I  said, 
\^J    Let  vie  ride  on  your  back; 
I  have  often  seen  your  shadow  in  the  glittering 

creek; 
Pegasus,  beautiful  Pegasus, 
Let  me  sit  on  your  back! 

He  was  away, 

But  I  was  on  his  back, 

So  I  went  with  him. 

We  had  a  castle  in  a  mountain  cloud. 

So  quickly  was  he  away, 

I  had  no  time  to  look  or  speak! 

That  was  the  last  I  saw  of  father  or  mother. 

We  went  far  from  the  shining  creek, 

Farther  than  I  know  how  to  tell  you: 

It  was  good-by. 


[65] 


VENICE  BRIDGE 

For  a  painting 

AWAY  back  in  an  old  city 
I  saw  a  bridge. 
That  bridge  belonged  to  Venice. 
It  was  to  the  rainbow  clear 
It  traveled, 
Over  an  old  canal. 
You  had  to  pass  a  cloudy  gate 
To  reach  the  color  .  .  . 
Bridges  do  sometimes  begin  on  the  earth 
And  end  in  the  sky. 


[66] 


NIGHT  GOES  RUSHING  BY 

NIGHT  goes  hurrying  over 
Like  sweeping  clouds; 
The  birds  are  nested;  their  song  is  silent. 
The    wind    says    oo  —  oo  —  oo  —  through    the 

trees 
For  their  lullaby. 
The  moon  shines  down  on  the  sleeping  birds. 

My  cottage  roof  is  like  a  sheet  of  silk 

Spun  like  a  cobweb. 

My  apple-trees  are  bare  as  the  oaks  in  the  forest; 

When  the  moon  shines 

I  see  no  leaves. 

I  am  alone  and  very  quiet 

Hoping  the  moon  may  say  something 

Before  long. 


[67] 


DANDELION 

O  LITTLE  soldier  with  the  golden  helmet, 
What  are  you  guarding  on  my  lawn? 
You  with  your  green  gun 
And  your  yellow  beard, 
Why  do  you  stand  so  stiff? 
There  is  only  the  grass  to  fight! 


[68] 


IF  I  COULD  TELL  YOU  THE  WAY 

DOWN  through  the  forest  to  the  river 
I  wander. 
There  are  swans  flying, 
Swans  on  the  water, 
Duck,  wild  birds. 
Fairies  live  here; 
They  know  no  sorrow. 
Birds,  winds, 
They  are  the  only  people. 
If  I  could  tell  you  the  way  to  this  place, 
You  would  sell  your  house  and  your  land 
For  silver  or  a  little  gold, 
You  would  sail  up  the  river, 
Tie  your  boat  to  the  Black  Stone, 
Build  a  leaf-hut,  make  a  twig-fire, 
Gather  mushrooms,  drink  spring-water, 
Live  alone  and  sing  to  yourself 
For  a  year  and  a  year  and  a  year ! 


[69] 


ROSE-PETAL 

PETAL  with  rosy  cheeks, 
Petal  with  thoughts  of  your  own, 
Petal  of  my  crimson-white  flower  out  of  June, 
Little  petal  of  my  heart! 


[70] 


POEMS 

SEE  the  fur  coats  go  by ! 
The  morning  is  like  the  inside  of  a  snow-apple. 
I  will  curl  myself  cushion-shape 
On  the  window-seat; 
I  will  read  poems  by  snow-light. 
If  I  cannot  understand  them  so, 
I  will  turn  them  upside  down 
And  read  them  by  the  red  candles 
Of  garden  brambles. 


[71] 


SEAGARDE 

I  WILL  return  to  you 
O  stillest  and  dearest, 
To  see  the  pearl  of  light 
That  flashes  in  your  golden  hair; 
To  hear  you  sing  your  songs  of  starlight 
And  tell  your  stories  of  the  wonderful  land 
Of  stars  and  fleecy  sky; 

To  say  to  you  that  Seagarde  will  soon  be  here, 
Seagarde  the  fairy 
With  her  seagulls  of  hope! 


[72] 


EASTER 

ON  Easter  morn 
Up  the  faint  cloudy  sky 
I  hear  the  Easter  bell, 

Ding  dong  .  .   .  ding  dong  .  . 
Easter  morning  scatters  lilies 
On  every  doorstep; 
Easter  morning  says  a  glad  thing 
Over  and  over. 

Poor  people,  beggars,  old  women 
Are  hearing  the  Easter  bell  .  .   . 

Ding  dong  .  .  .  ding  dong  .  . 


[73] 


BLUEBIRD 

OH  bluebird  with  light  red  breast, 
And  your  blue  back  like  a  feathered  sky, 
You  have  to  go  down  south 
Before  biting  winter  comes 
And  my  flower-beds  are  covered  with  fluff  out 

of  the  clouds. 
Before  you  go, 
Sing  me  one  more  song 
Of  tree-tops  down  south, 
Of  darkies  singing  their  babies  to  sleep, 
Of  sand  and  glittering  stones 
Where  rivers  pass; 
Then  .  .  .  good-by! 


[74] 


GEOGRAPHY 

I    CAN  tell  balsam  trees 
By    their    grayish    bluish    silverish    look   of 
smoke. 
Pine  trees  fringe  out. 
Hemlocks  look  like  Christmas. 
The  spruce  tree  is  feathered  and  rough 
Like  the  legs  of  the  red  chickens  in  our  poultry 

yard. 
I  can  study  my  geography  from  chickens 
Named  for  Plymouth  Rock  and  Rhode  Island, 
And  from  trees  out  of  Canada. 
No;  I  shall  leave  the  chickens  out. 
I  shall  make  a  new  geography  of  my  own. 
I  shall  have  a  hillside  of  spruce  and  hemlock 
Like  a  separate  country, 
And  I  shall  mark  a  walk  of  spires  on  my  map, 
A  secret  road  of  balsam  trees 
With  blue  buds. 

Trees  that  smell  like  a  wind  out  of  fairy-land 
Where  little  people  live 
Who  need  no  geography 
But  trees. 


[75] 


MARCH  THOUGHT 

I   AM  waiting  for  the  flowers 
To  come  back: 
I  am  alone, 
But  I  can  wait  for  the  birds. 


[76] 


MORNING 

THERE  is  a  brook  I  must  hear 
Before  I  go  to  sleep. 
There  is  a  birch  tree  I  must  visit 
Every  night  of  clearness. 
I  have  to  do  some  dreaming, 
I  have  to  listen  a  great  deal, 
Before  light  comes  back 
By  a  silver  arrow  of  cloud, 
And  I  rub  my  eyes  and  say 
It  must  be  morning  on  this  hill! 


[77] 


A 


SONG 

SCARLET  bird  went  sailing  away  through 
the  wood  .  .  . 


It  was  only  a  mist  of  dream- 
That  floated  by. 

Bare  boughs  of  my  apple-tree, 
Beautiful  gray  arms  stretched  out  to  me, 
Swaying  to  and  fro  like  angels'  wings  .  . 

//  was  only  a  mist  of  dream 
That  floated  by. 


[78] 


SNOWFLAKE  SONG 

SNOWFLAKES  come  in  fleets 
Like  ships  over  the  sea. 
The  moon  shines  down  on  the  crusty  snow: 
The  stars  make  the  sky  sparkle  like  gold-fish 
In  a  glassy  bowl. 
Bluebirds  are  gone  now, 
But  they  left  their  song  behind  them. 
The  moon  seems  to  say: 

It  is  time  for  summer  when  the  birds  come  back 
To  pick  up  their  lonesome  songs. 


[79] 


SNOWSTORM 

SNOWFLAKES  are  dancing. 
They  run  down  out  of  heaven. 
Coming  home   from  somewhere   down  the  long 

tired  road 
They  flake  us  sometimes 
The  way  they  do  the  grass, 
And  the  stretch  of  the  world. 
The  grass-blades  are  crowned  with  snowflakes. 
They  make  me  think  of  daisies 
With  white  frills  around  their  necks 
With  golden  faces  and  green  gowns; 
Poor  little  daisies, 
Tip-toe  and  shivering 
In  the  cold! 


[go] 


POPPY 

OH  big  red  poppy, 
You  look  stern  and  sturdy, 
Yet  you  bow  to  the  wind 
And  sing  a  lullaby  .   .   . 

"  Sleep,  little  ones  under  my  breast 

In  the  moonshine  .   .   ." 
You  make  this  lullaby, 
Sweet,  short, 
Slow,  beautiful, 
And  you  thank  the  dew  for  giving  you  a  drink. 


[8.] 


BUTTERFLY 

AS  I  walked  through  my  garden 
I  saw  a  butterfly  light  on  a  flowen 
His  wings  were  pink  and  purple : 
He  spoke  a  small  word  .  .  . 
It  was  Follow! 
"  /  cannot  follow  " 
I  told  him, 
"  /  have  to  go  the  opposite  way." 


[82] 


\ 


CLOUDS 

THE  clouds  were  gray  all  day. 
At  last  they  departed 
And  the  blue  diamonds  shone  aofain. 
I  watched  clouds  float  past  and  flow  back 
Like  waves  across  the  sea, 
Waves  that  are  foamy  and  soft, 
When  they  hear  clouds  calling 
Mother  Sea,  send  us  up  your  song 
Of  hushaby! 


[83] 


NARCISSUS 

NARCISSUS,  I  like  to  watch  you  grow 
When  snow  is  shining 
Beyond  the  crystal  glass. 
A  coat  of  snow  covers  the  hills  far. 
The  sun  is  setting; 

And  you  stretch  out  flowers  of  palest  white 
In  the  pink  of  the  sun. 


[84] 


\ 

LITTLE  SNAIL 

I    SAW  a  little  snail 
Come  down  the  garden  walk. 
He  wagged  his  head  this  way  .   .   .   that  way  .  .   . 
Like  a  clown  in  a  circus. 
He  looked  from  side  to  side 
As  though  he  were  from  a  different  country. 
I  have  always  said  he  carries  his  house  on  his 

back  .   .   . 
To-day  in  the  rain 
I  saw  that  it  was  his  umbrella  1 


[85] 


CHERRIES  ARE  RIPE 

THE  cherry  tree  is  red  now; 
Cherry  tree  nods  his  red  head 
And  calls  to  the  sun : 
Let  down  the  birds  out  of  the  sky; 
Send  home  the  birds  to  build  nests  in  my  arms, 
For  I  am  ready  to  feed  them. 
There  is  a  little  girl  coming  for  cherries  too  .  . 
(I  am  that  little  girl,  I  who  am  singing  .  .  .) 
She  is  coming  with  hair  flying! 
The  butterflies  will  be  going  (says  the  cherry) 
For  it  is  getting  dusk. 
When  it  is  dawn, 

They  will  be  up  and  out  with  the  dew, 
And  sparkle  as  the  dew  does 
On  the  tips  of  tall  slender  green  grasses 
Around  my  feet, 

Or  on  the  cheeks  of  fruit  I  have  ripened, 
Red  cherries  for  birds 
And  children. 


[86] 


A  THING  FORGOTTEN 

WHITE  owl  is  not  gloomy; 
Black  bat  is  not  sad. 
It  is  only  that  each  has  forgotten 
Something  he  used  to  remember: 
Black  bat  goes  searching  .  .  .  searching 
White  owl  says  over  and  over 
Who?     What?     Where? 


[87] 


LITTLE  PAPOOSE 

LITTLE  papoose 
Swung  high  in  the  branches 
Hears  a  song  of  birds,  stars,  clouds, 
Small  nests  of  birds, 
Small  buds  of  flowers. 

But  he  is  thinking  of  his  mother  with  dark  hair 
Like  her  horse's  mane. 

Fair  clouds  nod  to  him 

Where  he  swings  in  the  tree, 

But  he  is  thinking  of  his  father 

Dark  and  glistening  and  wonderful, 

Of  his  father  with  a  voice  like  ice  and  velvet, 

And  tones  of  falling  water, 

Of  his  father  who  shouts 

Like  a  storm. 


[88] 


FAIRIES  AGAIN 

FAIRIES  dancing  in  the  woods  at  night 
Make  me  think  of  foreign  places, 
Of  places  unknown. 

Fairies  with  sparkling  crowns  and  dewy  hands, 
Sprinkle  flowers  and  mosses  to  keep  them  fresh, 
Talk  to  the  birds  to  keep  them  cheery. 
Once  a  bird  came  home 
And  found  a  fairy  asleep  in  his  nest, 
Upon  his  baby  eggs, 
To  keep  them  warm ! 


[89] 


OH,  MY  HAZEL-EYED  MOTHER 

OH,  my  hazel-eyed  mother, 
I  looked  behind  the  mulberry  bush 
And  saw  you  standing  there. 
You  were  all  in  white 
With  a  star  on  your  forehead. 

Oh,  my  hazel-eyed  mother, 
I  do  not  remember  what  you  said  to  me, 
But  the  light  floating  above  you 
Was  your  love  for  your  little  girl. 


[90] 


THE  GREEN  PALM  TREE 

I    SAT  under  a  delicate  palm  tree 
On  a  shore  of  sounding  waves. 

I  felt  sure  I  was  alone, 

Listening. 

A  sea-gull  flew  by  from  France, 
A  sea-gull  flew  by  from  Spain, 
A  sea-gull  flew  by  from  Mexico! 

I  laughed  softly 

When  they  saw  me  : 

It  was  those  travelers 

From  foreign  countries 

Changed  my  thoughts 

To  laughter! 


[91] 


TREASURE 

ROBBERS  carry  a  treasure 
Into  a  field  of  wheat. 
With  a  great  bag  of  silk 
They  go  on  careful  feet. 
They  dig  a  hole,  deep,  deep, 
They  bury  it  under  a  stone, 
Cover  it  up  with  turf, 
Leave  it  alone. 
What  is  there  in  the  bag? 
Stones  that  shine,  gold? 
/  cannot  rob  the  robbers ! 
They  have  not  told. 
To-night  I'd  like  to  know 
If  they  will  go 
Softly  to  find  the  treasure? 
I'd  like  to  know 
How  much  yellow  gold 
A  bag  like  that  can  hold? 


[9^] 


TWO  PICTURES 


Gorgeous  Blue  Mountain 

I   SEE  a  great  mountain 
Stand  among  clouds; 
You  would  never  know 
Where  it  ended.   .   .   . 
Oh,  gorgeous  blue  mountain  of  my  heart 
And  of  my  love  for  you! 


II 

Sea-Gull 

From  a  yellow  strip  of  sand 

I  watch  a  gull  go  by. 

He  is  bright-eyed 

To  see  the  world  of  waves. 

All  his  dream  is  of  the  sea. 

All  his  love  is  for  his  mate. 


[93] 


TELL  ME 

TELL  me  quiet  things 
When  it  is  shadowy: 
It  is  at  morningbreak  you  must  tell  me  tales 
Like  those  about  Odysseus, 
Morning  is  the  time  for  ships 
And  strangers! 


[94] 


SILVERHORN 

IT  is  out  in  the  mountains 
I  find  him, 
My  snowy  deer 
With  silver  horns  like  dew, 
Horns  that  sparkle. 
I  think  I  see  him  in  the  hollow, 
He  is  on  the  high  hill! 
I  think  I  see  him  on  the  hill, 
He  is  leaping  through  the  air! 
I  think  I  can  ride  upon  his  back, 
He  is  like  moonlight  I  cannot  hold, 
He  is  like  thoughts  I  lose. 
He  flows  by 
All  white  .   .   . 

He  makes  me  think  of  the  brook 
Out  of  the  hills 
With  its  little  foamy  points 
Like  his  twitching  ears, 
Like  his  horns  of  silver 
Sparkling. 

The  brook  is  his  only  friend 
When  he  travels  .   .   . 
Silverhorn,  Silverhorn! 
[95] 


SPARKLING  DROP  OF  WATER 

THE  sun  shone, 
All  was  still. 
The  sun  made  one  sparkle  in  one  drop 
Before  it  fell 

Down  into  the  mossy  green 
That  was  the  grass. 
It  lay  there  silent 
A  long  time. 

The  sun  went,  the  moon  came, 
Again  one  sparkle  in  the  grass! 
Day  then  night,  sun  then  moon, 
Year  in,  year  out, 
So  it  went  on  with  its  life 
For  several  years 
Until  at  last  it  was  never  heard  of 
Any  more. 


[96] 


T 


HAY-COCK 

HIS  is  another  kind  of  sweetness 
Shaped  like  a  bee-hive: 
This  is  the  hive  the  bees  have  left, 
It  is  from  this  clover-heap 
They  took  away  the  honey 
For  the  other  hive ! 


[97] 


ONLY  MORNING-GLORY  THAT 
FLOWERED 

UNDER  the  vine  I  saw  one  morning-glory 
A  tight  unfolding  bud 
Half  out. 

He  looked  hard  down  into  my  lettuce-bed. 
He  was  thinking  hard. 
He  said  /  want  a  friend! 
I  was  standing  there: 

I  said,  Well,  I  am  here!     Don't  you  see  me? 
But  he  thought  and  thought. 

The  next  day  I  found  him  happy, 

Quite  out, 

Looking  about  the  world. 

The  wind  blew  sweet  airs, 

Carried  away  his  perfume  in  the  sun; 

And  near  by  swung  a  new  flower 

Uncurling  its  hands  .   .   . 

He  was  not  thoughtful 

Any  more  I 


[98] 


WEATHER 

WEATHER  is  the  answer 
When  I  can't  go  out  into  flowery  places; 
Weather  is  my  wonder 
About  the  kind  of  morning 
Hidden  behind  the  hills  of  sky. 


[99] 


SUMMER-DAY  SONG 

WILD  birds  fly  over  me. 
I  am  not  the  blue  curtain  overhead, 
I  am  the  one  who  lives  under  the  sky. 
I  swing  to  the  tree-tops, 
I  pick  strawberries, 
I  sing  and  play, 

And  happiness  makes  me  like  a  great  god 
On  the  earth. 

It  makes  me  think  of  great  things 
A  little  girl  like  me 
Could  not  know  of. 


[  ioo] 


PINK  ROSE-PETALS 

PINK  rose-petals 
Fluttering  down  in  hosts, 
I  know  what  you  mean 
Sometimes,  in  Spring. 
It  is  love  you  mean. 

Love  has  a  gray  bird 
That  flutters  down; 
A  dove  that  comes  flying 
Saying  the  same  thing. 

How  happy  it  makes  me  to  think  of  itf 
Rose-petals  .  .  .  the  gray  dove  .  .  . 


[ioi] 


THE  LONESOME  GREEN  APPLE 

THERE  was  a  little  green  apple 
That  had  lasted  over  winter. 
He  had  one  leaf  .  .  . 
In  spite  of  that  he  was  lonesome. 
He  wondered  what  he  could  do 
When  the  blossoms  were  all  around  him, 
But  one  day  he  saw  something! 
Petals  were  falling,  faces  were  looking  out, 
Shapes  like  his  were  coming  in  the  buds; 
Then  he  said: 
"  //  /  hold  on 
There  will  be  a  tree-full, 
And  I  shall  know  more  than  any  of  them!  " 


[  102] 


I  AM 

I  AM  willowy  boughs 
For  coolness; 
I  am  gold-finch  wings 
For  darkness; 
I  am  a  little  grape 
Thinking  of  September, 
I  am  a  very  small  violet 
Thinking  of  May. 


t  103] 


MUSHROOM  SONG 

H  little  mushrooms  with  brown  faces 
underneath 
And  bare  white  heads, 

You  think  of  summer  and  you  think  of  song  .   .  . 
Why  don't  you  think  of  me 
In  my  little  white  bed 
In  the  night? 

You  think  only  of  your  singsong  and  your  dances. 
Following  your  leader  round  and  round, 
You  think  only  of  the  grass 
And  the  green  apples  and  leaves 
Dropping  out  of  the  blue  .   .   . 
Why  don't  you  think  of  me  asleep 
In  my  little  white  bed? 
The  wind  thinks  of  me, 
Brown-white  dancers ! 
You  forget, 
But  the  wind  remembers. 


[  104] 


THE  APPLE-JELLY-FISH-TREE 

DOWN  in  the  depths  of  the  sea 
Grew  the  Apple-Jelly-Fish-Tree. 
It  was  named  by  a  queer  old  robber 
And  his  mates  three. 

I  watched  it  for  a  second, 
I  watched  it  for  a  day. 
It  did  not  change  color 
For  its  colors  stay. 

It  was  as  red,  as  yellow,  as  white,  as  blue 
As  gold  and  stones  with  the  light  through 

/  watched  it  long  and  long 
Till  a  flying  sun  fish 
Swam  through  its  branches. 
He  had  opal  wings 
And  a  sapphire  tail. 

No  wonder  robbers  like  to  stay 
Where  fish  so  shining  come  to  play! 


[105] 


THREE  LOVES 

ANGEL-LOVE, 
Fairy-love, 
Wave-love, 

Which  will  you  choose? 

Angel-love  .  .  .  golden-yellow  and  far  white  . 
Fairy-love  .   .   .  golden  yellow  and  green  .  .  . 
Wave-love  .   .   .   scarlet  and  azure  blue  .   .  . 
Which  will  you  choose? 

I  will  keep  them  in  a  box 

Locked  with  a  twisted  key. 

I  will  give  them  to  people  who  need  love, 

I  will  let  them  choose. 

Fairy-love  blows  away  like  leaves. 

Angels  I  know  little  about. 

For  myself  I  choose  wave-love 

Because  of  the  wind  and  the  sea  and  my  heart. 


[106] 


THE  FIELD  OF  WONDER 

WHAT  could  be  more  wonderful 
Than  the  place  where  I  walk  sometimes? 
Swaying  like  trees  in  rain  .   .   . 
Swaying  like  trees  in  sunshine 
When  breezes  stir  nothing  but  happiness  .  .  . 
What  could  be  more  lovely? 
I  walk  in  the  Field  of  Wonder 
Where  colors  come  to  be; 
I  stare  at  the  sky  .  .   . 
I  feel  myself  lifting  on  the  wind 
As  the  swallows  lift  and  blow  upward  .  .  . 
I  see  colors  fade  out,  they  die  away  .   .  . 
I  blow  across  a  cloud  ...   I  am  lifted  .  .  . 
How  can  I  change  again  into  a  little  girl 
When  wings  are  in  my  feeling  of  gladness? 
This  is  strange  to  know 
On  a  summer  day  at  noon, 
This  is  a  wild  new  joy 
When  summer  is  over. 
The  scarlet  of  three  maple  trees 
Will  guide  me  home, 
Oh  mother  my  dear! 
Fear  nothing:     I  will  come  home 
Before  snow  falls ! 

[  107  ] 


MOON  DOVES 

THE  moon  has  a  dove-cote  safe  and  small, 
Hid  in  the  velvet  sky: 
The  doves  are  her  companions  sweet; 
She  has  no  others. 
Moon  doves  on  the  wing  are  white 
As  a  valley  of  stars, 
When  they  fly,  there  is  shining 
Like  a  golden  river. 
/  see  so  many  whirling  away  and  away, 
How  can  they  get  home  again? 
The  moon  is  calm  and  never  wears  an  anxious 

look, 
She  goes  on  smiling. 
/  hear  so  many  doves  along  the  sky 
How  will  her  dove-cote  hold  them? 
The  moon  says  not  one  word  to  me; 
She  lets  me  wonder. 


[108] 


I  WENT  TO  SEA 

I   WENT  to  sea  in  a  glass-bottomed  boat 
And  found  that  the  loveliest  shells  of  all 
Are  hidden  below  in  valleys  of  sand. 
I  saw  coral  and  sponge  and  weed 
And  bubbles  like  jewels  dangling. 
I  saw  a  creature  with  eyes  of  mist 
Go  by  slowly. 

Star-fish  fingers  held  the  water  .  .  . 
Let  it  go  again  .   .   . 
I  saw  little  fish,  the  children  of  the  sea; 
They  were  gay  and  busy. 

I  wanted  the  sea-weed  purple;  I  wanted  the  shells; 
I  wanted  a  little  fish  to  hold  in  my  hands; 
I  wanted  the  big  fish  to  stop  wandering  about, 
And  tell  me  all  they  knew  .   .   . 
I  have  come  back  safe  and  dry 
And  know  no  more  secrets 
Than  yesterday! 


[  109] 


THREE  THOUGHTS  OF  MY  HEART 

AS  I  was  straying  by  the  forest  brook 
I  heard  my  heart  speak  to  me : 
Listen;  said  my  heart, 
/  have  three  thoughts  for  you  .  .  . 
A  thought  of  clouds, 
A  thought  of  birds, 
A  thought  of  flowers. 

I  sat  upon  a  cushion  of  moss, 

Listening, 

Where  the  light  played,  and  the  green  shadows 

What  would  you  do  ...   I  asked  my  heart  .   . 

//  you  were  a  floating  ship  of  the  sky   .   .   . 

//  you  were  a  peering  bird  .   .   . 

//  you  were  a  wild  geranium? 

And  my  heart  made  answer: 

That  is  what  I  wonder  and  wonder! 

After  all  it  is  life  I  love, 

After  all  I  am  a  living  thing, 

After  all  I  am  the  heart  of  you  .  .  . 

/  am  content! 


[no] 


SNOW-CAPPED  MOUNTAIN 

SNOW-CAPPED  mountain,  so  white,  so  tall, 
The  whole  sea 
Must  stand  behind  you! 

Snow-capped   mountain,   with   the   wind  on  your 

forehead, 
Do  you  hold  the  eagles'  nests? 

Proud  thing, 

You  shine  like  a  lily, 

Yet  with  a  different  whiteness; 

I  should  not  dare  to  venture 

Up  your  slippery  towers, 

For  I  am  thinking  you  lean  too  far 

Over  the  Edge  of  the  World! 


Cm] 


THE  BROOK  AND  ITS  CHILDREN 

O  BROOK,  running  down  your  mossy  way, 
I  hear  only  your  voice 
And  the  murmuring  fir-trees; 
Where  are  your  children? 
Where  are  the  magic  stones,  your  children?  " 

The  brook  answered  me  sweetly , 

"  I  left  them  on  the  Alp, 

In  steep  fields. 

They  were  trying  to  hold  me  back, 

To  keep  me  from  this  shady  path  of  happiness; 

But  I  went  onward  day  by  day 

Until  they  got  used  to  seeing  me  pass. 

Now,  they  stand  there  in  an  enchantment 

On  the  mountain-side, 

While  I  travel  fields  of  elm  and  poplar." 


[112] 


BIRD  OF  PARADISE 

I  WAS  walking  in  a  meadow  of  Paradise 
When  I  heard  a  singing 
Far  away  and  sweet 
Like  a   Roman  harp, 
Sweet  and  murmurous 
Like  the  wind, 
Far  and  soft 
Like  the  fir  trees. 

It  will  not  change  a  song 

If  the  bird  has  a  golden  crest; 

No  feathers  of  blue  and  rose-red 

Could  make  a  song. 

I  have  known  in  my  dreaming 

A  gray  bird  that  sang 

While  all  the  fields  listened! 

The  Bird  of  Paradise  is  like  flowers  of  many  trees 

Blooming  on  one : 

I  saw  him  in  the  meadow, 

But  it  was  the  gray  bird  I  heard  singing 

Beyond  and  far. 


[113] 


SHINY  BROOK 

OH,  shiny  brook, 
I  watch  you  on  your  way  to  the  sea, 
And  see  little  faces  peering  up 
Out  of  the  water  .   .   . 
Water-fairies  .   .   . 
Strange  smiles  and  questions. 
They  are  your  pebbles  sweet, 
Golden  with  foam  of  the  sun, 
Blue  with  foam  of  the  sky. 
I  know  their  way  of  speaking, 
Of  talking  to  each  other: 
I  hear  them  telling  secrets 
About  green  moss,  about  fish  that  get  lost. 
And  how  I  am  sitting  on  a  big  stone 
Getting  my  feet  wet  in  Shiny  Brook 
To  watch  their  surprising  ways ! 


[  ii4] 


HILLS 

THE  hills  are  going  somewhere; 
They  have  been  on  the  way  a  long  time. 
They  are  like  camels  in  a  line 
But  they  move  more  slowly. 
Sometimes  at  sunset  they  carry  silks, 
But  most  of  the  time  silver  birch  trees, 
Heavy  rocks,  heavy  trees,  gold  leaves 
On  heavy  branches  till  they  are  aching  .  .   . 
Birches  like  silver  bars  they  can  hardly  lift 
With  grass  so  thick  about  their  feet  to  hinder 
They  have  not  gone  far 
In  the  time  I've  watched  them  .  .  . 


["5] 


ADVENTURE 

I  WENT  slowly  through  the  wood  of  shadows, 
Thinking  always  I  should  meet  some  one: 
There  was  no  one. 

I  found  a  hollow 

Sweet  to  rest  in  all  night  long: 

I  did  not  stay. 

I  came  out  beyond  the  trees 

To  the  moaning  sea. 

Over  the  sea  swam  a  cloud  the  outline  of  a  ship: 

What  if  that  ship  held  my  adventure 

Under  its  sails? 

Come  quickly  to  me,  come  quickly, 

I  am  waiting. 

I  am  here  on  the  sand; 

Sail  close! 

I  want  to  go  over  the  waves  .  .  . 

The  sand  holds  me  hack. 

Oh  adventure,  if  you  belong  to  me, 

Don't  blow  away  down  the  sky! 


[116] 


FAIRIES 

I    CANNOT  see  fairies. 
I  dream  them. 
There  is  no  fairy  can  hide  from  me; 
I  keep  on  dreaming  till  I  find  him: 
There    you    are,    Primrose!     I    see   you,    Black 
Whig! 


[117] 


HUMMING-BIRD 

WHY  do  you  stand  on  the  air 
And  no  sun  shining? 
How  can  you  hold  yourself  so  still 
On  raindrops  sliding? 
They  change  and  fall,  they  are  not  steady, 
But  you  do  not  know  they  are  gone. 
Is  there  a  silver  wire 
I  cannot  see? 
Is  the  wind  your  perch? 

Raindrops  slide  down  your  little  shoulders  .  .  t 
They  do  not  wet  you : 
I  think  you  are  not  real 
In  your  green  feathers ! 
You  are  not  a  humming-bird  at  all 
Standing  on  air  above  the  garden! 
I  dreamed  you  the  way  I  dream  fairies, 
Or  the  flower  I  lost  yesterday! 


[118] 


BLUE  GRASS 

BLUE  grass  flowering  in  the  field, 
You  are  my  heart's  content. 
It  is  not  only  through  the  day  I  see  you, 
But  in  dreams  at  night 
When  you  trudge  up  the  hill 
Along  the  forest, 
As  I  do ! 

You  are  small  to  shine  so, 
Nobody  speaks  of  you  much, 
Because  of  daisies  and  such  summer  blooms. 
When  you  wonder  why  I  like  you 
It  makes  me  wonder  too! 
Maybe  I  remember  when  you  grew  high 
Like  a  tree  above  my  head, 
Because  I  was  a  fairy. 


[ii9l 


ENVOY 

IF  /  am  happy,  and  you, 
And  there  are  things  to  dos 
It  seems  to  be  the  reason 
Of  this  world! 


THE   END 


[  I20] 


